Two Trips to Clinton, the Wrath of the Kickstand, and My Spine Sucks

Still Life with Wheel and Weed, Clinton, NJ

17 July 2016

The curse of the Synapses continues.

Despite Tom's ritual Blessing of the Bikes with the Holy Kickstand (Jack H, on his replacement Fuji, rolled back in fear), we lost Blake to a bald tire 1.5 miles into our ride from Lambertville to Clinton.  "One down, five to go," I warned as we pushed off again.

It wasn't very hot out, yet, but I was playing it conservatively. Tom noticed that I was spinning more than usual. I was tired. I hadn't really recovered from two weekends of centuries. This was also my first hilly ride since the wind nearly took me out in Maine. I was lagging behind but I knew I'd be in front on the way home.

We passed the Sergeantsville General Store.

"Ack!"

"New windows."

Why?

The awning Sun fought the township for, and the "bikers welcome" sign, were gone. We can only hope that they'll be back up when the paint dries.

There are still a few roads between Sergeantsville and Clinton that I haven't been on. I aimed to remedy that by taking parts of Perryville and Cooks' Cross, and doubling back on Race. The group was getting quiet. Hot and hungry, probably.

The wheel wasn't turning at the mill as I took the obligatory Clinton picture.

Geese hung out in the surf.

A fisherman chatted with his partner, who was casting from the bridge.

And then there was the giant duck.

If I'd been paying attention, or been more curious, I'd have figured out what the duck was about. I didn't; I had that heat-hunger-distance myopia thing going on. I noticed the paper duck cut-outs lining the shop windows and figured it was just one of those small-town things that we outsiders didn't have to bother ourselves with.

More pictures.

We followed the Raritan out of town, along River Road, part of which is closed to cars and overgrowing.

Jack H said, "You found a flat way out of here."

I said, "Wait for it."

"I don't believe you."

I pointed to the right at the next clearing. "We're going up that."

Spring Hill Road, halfway up, looking north:

West Sidney Road, home of Cheryl's Fucking Hill, and now a very special road sign:

West Sidney was our last big ascent, and the only big one that was in the sun. As we made our way across the ridge, I took a wrong turn, but it hardly mattered. "It's a big grid up here," Tom said. At least my wrong turn had shade in it.

When we got back to Lambertville, Michael H's group was still milling about after their ride to Milford. He and I did some route geeking. The roads I take out of Clinton are ones he doesn't, and the ones I want to try are the ones he uses regularly. I'm always amused at how different ride leaders see the world.

After a quick de-griming, I walked over to Rojo's to stock up on beans, then stopped in the drug store because it was there and I needed some stuff. When I stepped out again, it was pouring. The rain was hot.

I was about to pull out when Blake pulled in.

And Blake, having angered the Holy Kickstand through benign neglect of his equipment, did appease the gods with new tires and verily did he carry himself up Uhlerstown Road in penance.

I stopped in at Wheelfine and Hart's on the way home and got back with time enough to shower before heading out again to a party in Jersey City. We were there late, and returned home well after midnight. Somewhere in there, I ought to have done a round of PT for my back. I didn't.

I woke up after 9:00 a.m. with a stiff back. I stretched, worked on the Freewheel to the point of being almost finished, and then Jack and I took a trip back to Clinton to see what was inside of the Hunterdon Art Museum.

That duck thing?  I ought to have checked. The town was packed. The bridge was closed to traffic. We found the last parking space in a lot two blocks from town.

The walk afforded us a different view of the Raritan River and the mill.

That duck thing? A rubber duck race, starting at 2:00 p.m. It was 1:40.

If, yesterday, I'd looked up at the giant yellow banner across Main Street, I'd have known.  The west side of town was packed. Main Street was empty. The race ended at 2:20, as we were in the middle of lunch at a quiet restaurant. By the time we'd finished, the crowds were gone and the duck had passed out.

There's not much to the Hunterdon Art Museum. The top floor had an exhibit of works by homeless children and their parents. It was part of a program at HomeFront. It was sad and hopeful, and most of the adult artists were women.

The museum is pretty okay for something so small. I could have taken pictures of what was inside, but mostly I took pictures of the Raritan River.  What is wrong with me?

Zip ties!

The duck had regained consciousness:

Now it was hot. Jack grudgingly let me have a couple of minutes near the water on the way back to the car:

I drove the scenic route out of Clinton, hoping to show Jack the Dr. Seuss trees. But they've grown in; he could only barely see what I was getting at as we passed them at the top of the ridge.

At home, I locked myself in front of the computer again, for hours, finishing the August Freewheel for the proofreaders near bedtime. Once again, I gave my back only a brief PT session.

And in the morning, I paid for the neglect. For the first time since 2011, when I'd flown home from Vancouver without knowing I needed to wear a brace on long flights, my back hurt so much I could hardly walk. Bending was out of the question. I hobbled into work. When I knelt down to put tubes into the incubator, it took me a long time to stand up again. I started taking NSAIDS every four hours. By the third dose, my walking speed had picked up to almost normal.

The pills also helped my neck, which has been crunchy since May, thanks to a bad pillow and worse genes. For that, my doctor has prescribed a continuation of all the weight lifting I've been doing, plus posture checks. And an inversion table.

This, of course, had to be the day that the 50-pound inversion table arrived, lying flat-packed across the front steps. I had enough drugs in me to carry it inside, with Jack's help, but it was Jack who brought it downstairs. The humiliation. My spine sucks.

By the time we were finished dinner, my mobility was back to normal.  I was tempted to put the table together, but there was the matter of fixing the Freewheel text (my sharp editors went easy on me this month) and getting it out to the publisher. And blogging. I had to catch up on that, too.  I knew that once I sat down at the computer, the risk of wrecking my back during table construction would be eliminated.

I'm not going to ride my bike to work tomorrow, nor will I go to the gym, which shows just how much discipline I've managed to muster. Cheryl always says, "Listen to your body." I didn't, I paid for it, and now I'm behaving.

Right.  Off to do some PT before bed.